


Going home

by NuclearFirecracker



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26811142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearFirecracker/pseuds/NuclearFirecracker
Summary: A collection of my attempts to write poetry. Kinda amateurish, kinda dark at times, but that's just how it is
Kudos: 1





	1. Nothing

There is a hole

at the center of my heart

as old as I am,

black and unending, it swallows everything;

so I put barbed wire around it,

(for protection)

and walked the other way.

And if I climb the mountain of my achievements,

from the very top

I can see the hole all the more clearly.

I crossed the desert and went inside one day;

from the spikes in the barbed wire fence little white roses grew –

(thornless, for reasons I don’t know or understand)

– and they let me in.

I saw a creature inside

a wraith-like shadow that spoke with my voice and said:

Have you come home?

I said,

I don’t think I have one anymore.

The creature said:

Long ago I climbed the mountain as well,

there I found an old wise man.

He told me: do as I say,

and you will be perfect.

I did.

And I asked, are you perfect?

And the wraith whispered,

I was.

My skin turned to shadow

My voice turned to echo

My bones turned to nothing

If there is perfect, it must be nothing.

I hid in this hole –

the desert winds would have blown me away,

but the barbed wire could no longer cut me

and the darkness understands me now

far better

than the sun.

And I said,

The old wise man isn’t there anymore,

but if you’re quiet enough you can still hear his voice.

And the shadow said,

Then you should

scream.


	2. Cookies

There is no food in my parents' house,

Except for sweets on every shelf,

The bread and oranges that rot

In their bowls as time goes on -

My mother eats, drinks and breathes at work

My sister eats, sometimes, but barely at all

My father - he storms in and takes what he needs,

He hates himself, but quite likes the sweets

The oranges mark the passage of time -

I throw them away when I drop on by

My mother claims she bought them for us

So the rotting is, actually, our fault

The house is empty whenever I'm there

So I take some cookies and help myself

To a large orange, (I felt bad for it)

And a chocolate bar from the back of the shelf

My sister talks, but I can't really hear

What she says, whenever I'm there

I feel the sugar in my mouth and lungs

And for a moment I can actually tear

My thoughts away from the curious fact

That nobody eats in that fucking house

Nobody seems to need it at all,

I come by, I steal their cookies and think

Im just like my father, I take what I need

Everyone stands up when I arrive

But nobody hears anything I say

I raise my voice but they all move away

I know I don't need sweets, I need something else

But I'm not gonna fucking get it, am I?

It's just not there anymore, if ever

I don't remember - maybe it was

Maybe I just couldn't ever see it,

Maybe I didn't know where it was

Maybe there is a secret drawer in this house

And I was just too stupid to find it.


	3. Anniversary

Five years ago (to the day)

I stormed out of my house lying to myself that I would study

in the city, 

near the post office

where someone I knew was supposed to pay bills. 

I told him, I'll be around 

so drop by if you want to have coffee- I'll be on a break 

and he rushed out of his house 

so quickly that he forgot his jacket

and when he arrived i was eating a sandwich, 

pigeons gathered around me collecting crumbs 

he had a very old, plaid shirt

(I wore my beautiful tweed blazer)

and his hair shone golden in the sun 

he complained about being cold, and I gave him my purple scarf 

he said, I thought I'd look stupid wearing a woman's scarf,

but I dont- 

and I said,

everything looks good on a handsome man

and his face turned the same purple color,

and I had a thought 

I'll have you for myself, if it's the last thing I do. 


	4. Raspberries

"Home's not a place, it's people" - 

I read that somewhere as a kid

it made me sad, I thought to myself 

my home is a raspberry patch behind our house

that my grandfather grew so carefully 

until he grew too weak to walk up there. 

my mother wanted a chemist

my father wanted a boy 

my grandmother taught me piano;

my grandfather told me stories 

how he used to work in a prison for minors 

and how, really, all people can be good if you give them a chance - 

and how once in college he got so drunk he stole a sign

and _kid, it doesn't matter what you decide to do_

_just try to be happy_

my grandfather took me to museums 

(he always said i was smart),

my grandma once said i inherited 

the arrhythmia from his heart 

I don't really want this to rhyme, actually - 

this next part is not so cute

the darkness took his mind until

he no longer knew who i was, 

he'd ask me if we knew each other,

and I'd say - 

we went to the same college, but it's been a while 

oh? it's always nice to meet another psychologist,

he'd smile as he shook my hand. 


	5. Storm

my grandfather called me last night

at 3 AM to ask how I was

while a storm was raging outside, 

trees pulled from their roots 

roof tiles fell from the sky 

and i answered my phone (it said, "Home")

"Is that you?"

"Yes?" 

I'd already decided 

I wouldn't go to work in the morning - 

whatever was screaming outside, 

I decided to give it some space

to let it all out 

(like a true psychologist)

but my grandfather called 

(like a true psychologist)

just to ask how i was 

and who I was, because sometimes he'd forget my name

but he'd still remember to call 

"Is that you?" 

Yes, it's me, and I know that voice

quiet and deep amongst the screams of snapping branches 

when only two days ago, 

i watched the boys and girls go to first communion

under the bright blue sky,

white dresses, nervous mothers

tiny suits, smug fathers 

eyes wandering and looking for a way 

to mess up the shiny new clothes.

but tonight, the building is shaking

and whoever's angry, I'm sure they have their reasons

I'm not angry

I'm confused

"I just wanted to ask, how are you?"

I'm confused as I wake from a dream

into the pitch black as a tree falls outside

my grandfather died two years ago

on a sunny day, perfect for first communion

peacefully, without a fight

I guess some people take longer

to find their own anger


	6. Heart

advice for my younger self?

I do have some - 

machine-men with rusted hearts 

will demand things of you,

conditions for their love, 

choices between: 

what they want, 

and what they deem unforgivable;

what you are allowed to be,

and what is worthy of scorn;

\- they will keep you busy with

expectations they cannot fulfill themselves,

and threats they do not believe in, 

and what you seek will be 

so close, yet

out of 

reach 

their love will be poison, 

and you will be 

so thirsty 

you'll drink

without question 

or hesitation

and you will always be

slightly wrong,

slightly weird, 

slightly embarrassing,

for the same reason 

they will keep your mind busy 

to keep you from seeing 

a very 

simple 

truth - 

you are not a machine;

your stupid, awkward heart 

will never be iron 

but 

at 

least 

it 

will 

never 

rust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess I can tell whoever is left reading this that illustrations for my poems and for my fanfic can be found on my instagram, @sarumaruu if you're interested. there's a lot of other stuff as well since I do like to draw and do it fairly often. there's also selfies and cat pictures since I, too, am human


	7. Wings

Perfection was

So narrow a goal

And I used to be so small

To try and fit its suffocating walls; 

Why did I think it was worth it

Clipping my own wings 

To fit inside a box? 

And I spent so long in that box, 

I nearly forgot - 

There is no authority on this world 

To grant or deny the permission I was

So desperately waiting for,

The question was never, 

"Are they going to let me?" 

The real question is, 

"How the hell are you going to stop me?" 


	8. Still life

I told my boyfriend

if you were an artist, you'd paint pears 

Pears? he asked

Pears on a table, yes 

Three normal-looking pears as a reference

and you'd paint them 

to look like pears, certainly

but they would be a different kind of pears 

pears reimagined 

in someone's fever-dream at 3 in the morning

idea of pears, so close to reality 

but slightly off

always slightly different 

something barely traceable, 

impossible to explain

in the corner of my eye 

in a very mundane piece of still life

they would be pears, certainly

you wouldn't be satisfied unless they were recognizably pears 

but when I look at them

I'd see they actually don't look like pears at all, 

but I know they are 

they must be

what the hell are they?

and 

I've never really looked at pears before

but

if you painted pears 

I'd put them on my wall, 

right above my computer desk, and my coffee cup, and textbooks 

I'd show them to my friends

and the delivery man when he brings pizza 

or fixes the gas stove, 

and they'd ask - what are they? 

and I'd say, you see, they are pears, but not quite. 


End file.
